


Along the Way

by Mazarin221b



Series: Waiting There For You [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Jealousy, M/M, Married Couple, Sex and serial killers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-02
Updated: 2012-02-02
Packaged: 2017-10-30 12:39:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/331827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mazarin221b/pseuds/Mazarin221b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A few months into their marriage, John and Sherlock go undercover to catch a serial killer. The culmination leaves Sherlock feeling a wee bit put out. Part of the "Waiting There For You" universe, set a few months after Bless the Rains. But you don't need to know anything about that universe other than that they're married.</p><p> </p><p>  <i>“Just try not to get yourself killed, all right?” John glances sideways, catches Sherlock’s eye for an instant. “I’d miss you not making coffee.”</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Along the Way

John straightens his collar, smoothes down his shirt. He’s never been all that good at these undercover operations, but he’d rather be here than at home, wondering what Sherlock’s gotten himself into this time. 

“This time” is potential serial killer Reggie Mason, a fashion salesman with a penchant for luring tall, well-dressed men home, having sex with them, then giving them makeovers, usually with surgical instruments and wire. John shudders at the memory of the last body he saw, takes a deep breath, and pushes open the door to the pub.

And there’s his husband sitting at the bar, a honey trap in a grey bespoke suit, ebony curls cut and gelled into an artful fall over one eye.

“You don’t even drink whiskey,” John says as he steps up next to him and signals to get the bartender’s attention.

“Less likely to drink too much,” Sherlock murmurs, and takes a hefty swallow. John’s not sure how he manages without flinching, because he can smell the peaty, smoky single malt from where he’s standing.

“Just try not to get yourself killed, all right?” John glances sideways, catches Sherlock’s eye for an instant. “I’d miss you not making coffee.”

Sherlock’s mouth twitches. Good, he’d made him smile. This case had been a bit tense from the start, but Sherlock was sure he’d have him tonight, just needed to lure him out, get him to commit, and he’d be sure to make a mistake.

“Thanks.” John nods to the bartender, takes his stout and has a sip. He turns to find a table across the way where he can discretely watch how Sherlock gets on and bumps directly into the man that had stepped up behind him.

“Sorry, “ he says, and when he looks up he has to fight to keep his expression neutral. Mason, the man they were here for. Right here.  “Um, I don’t think I got anything on you…” John says, and as he tries to side-step around, clear the field for Sherlock, Mason puts up a hand.

“No, no, entirely my fault. Let me get you another, hey, another stout for…”

“John.”

“John, here.” Mason turns back to John, eyes him in a way not entirely unlike a cobra ready to strike at a mouse and John feels a chill slide down his spine.

“Glad nothing happened to that lovely shirt,” Sherlock drawls from the side, and John and Mason both swivel their heads to see Sherlock , one elbow on the bar and shirt opened one button too far. His eyes are a bit glassy-looking, and he gives Mason a leer that has John ready to leave just so he has the liberty to roll his eyes in peace. “Bespoke, silk, less than a month old, I’d say. Gorgeous.”

Oddly, Mason doesn’t even react to that little bit of information, just says “Yes, it is,” politely and takes John’s elbow.

“Listen, you want to get a table? There’s quite a few over in that corner. I’m sort of here by myself, and there’s nothing more depressing than drinking on your own.”

John’s a bit wary. This isn’t exactly how they had planned for the evening to go, but he’s certainly not going to let this man latch onto some poor unsuspecting bloke instead, so he follows Mason to a table and sits down. Sherlock stays at the bar, face scrunched up in a way that means he’s trying to back-calculate his mistake and John tries not to chuckle at his obvious (well, obvious to him, at any rate) puzzlement and rather lovely pout.

“He is a gorgeous thing, I’ll grant you,” Mason says, and John jumps a little, realizes he’s been staring at Sherlock a little too obviously.

“Hm? Oh, yes. Him. He certainly is.”

“But those exotics, so difficult to take care of, you know? Delicate, always needing pampering and attention. You, on the other hand, I think you can take care of yourself just fine.” Mason smiles at him and John tentatively smiles back.

They talk for an hour, John trying as best he's able to pry out of Mason everything he can about his work, his social life, his exes, anything to give him some sort of insight into what would drive him to do the things he does, anything he can give Sherlock later, even as simple data to help him round out his profile. He plays interested, he plays coy, he flirts.  He tries to check on Sherlock, looking at him occasionally over the rim of his glass, but about a half-hour in, Sherlock’s disappeared. John hopes it’s to inform Lestrade of the change in plans and bring backup.

“You know, I’d really like you to come back to mine, John,” Mason purrs, stroking his fingers over the back of John’s hand.  “I think we could have a very nice evening together.”

John’s skin crawls at Mason’s touch, but he smiles as lasciviously as he can manage. “Sounds perfect. I’ll  get a cab.”

……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

The cab ride is about as uncomfortable as John’s ever been in his life, Mason breathing in his ear and groping his crotch, and he closes his eyes and remembers that Sherlock’s pretty sure that they’ll be able to catch Mason in the act of drugging his drink or his food long before they actually get to the sex. At least, that’s what Sherlock had told _him_ , when it was Sherlock they expected to be put in the position of fending off Mason’s rather horrible kisses. John sure as hell hopes that reassurance works the other way around.

Mason has John pinned to the back of the elevator in his building as soon as they step in, kissing his neck and both hands on John’s arse.

“Easy,” John says, and pushes back a little. “Let’s at least get inside first.” He’s not had another person touch him since he and Sherlock got together, and it feels, frankly, horrible and slimy and wet.

Once they’re inside, John steps forward, looks around the expansive, expensive flat, perfectly clean and beautifully decorated, and he wonders for a second if maybe Sherlock’s got the wrong man. Mason wasn’t interested in Sherlock and the obvious play at his interests; in fact, he zeroed in on John almost immediately he got there. Perhaps Mason’s just a letch looking for a good time, John thinks, and as he’s wondering how he can gracefully duck out to the loo to call Sherlock, he’s hit with something immensely hard on the back of the head.

 _Sherlock, you lying brat,_ John thinks as it all goes dark.

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….

He wakes up still in Mason’s flat, Sherlock kneeling next to him and a paramedic getting a gurney ready.

“No,” he groans, struggles to sit up. “Nope, no hospital.”

Sherlock scoots around behind him, pulls John back against his chest. “You’ve been out a while. You should be checked for concussion, or bleeding.”

“Have a concussion. Doubt any brain bleeding.” John tips his head back, turns his nose into Sherlock’s neck and smells his cologne. “You smell so nice,” he says, and his head is still swimming. His husband always does smells so nice, really, like expensive soap and ether sometimes.

“We really should take him, sir, if you’ll just excuse me—” the paramedic says, and Sherlock waves her off.

“I’m his husband,” he says primly. “And he’s a doctor. He’ll be fine at home. I’ll watch him.”

The paramedic sighs wearily, probably having heard the “I’m a doctor” excuse for the hundredth time, cautions them both about waking John up every couple of hours, then packs up her things.

John sees Anderson and his team coming out of a hallway bedroom with evidence bags full of shiny silver instruments and he looks up at Sherlock.

“If I didn’t feel like I was going to puke down your shirt, you’d be in so much trouble right now,” he says, and Sherlock simply smiles, pats him on the shoulder and steers them out the door to a waiting car.

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Sherlock gets John to their bed, pulls off his shoes and jeans and socks and tucks him in with a lingering kiss to his forehead.

“I’ll wake you up in an hour or so. I’ve set the alarm, but I’ll be here.”

John settles in, warm and safe in their own bed, no murderous, lecherous men there to breathe on him. Sherlock has a lot of explaining to do about that one. Later. After he wakes up.

It seems only an instant when the alarm clock shrieks from the bedside table. John blindly whacks at it, sighs. Opens his eyes a fraction.

True to his word, Sherlock did stay to watch over him. He’s perched cross-legged on the end of the bed, and he’s thinking so hard John can practically smell the gears grinding.

“I’m awake, if it matters,” John says.

Sherlock’s eyes flash open. “Let me see,” he says, and peers hard at John’s eyes. “Well. Normal, at any rate. Need more paracetamol?”

John assesses for a moment. “No, I’m doing okay, actually. What’s got you so wound up?” And Sherlock is wound up, his entire body vibrating as he sits, his fingers flicking through his mind palace in tiny, almost imperceptible gestures.

“Why you?” Sherlock says, finally. “I was his perfect victim! I dressed the part, I even cut my hair, for heaven’s sake, I said what I thought would catch his attention. You’re not even remotely his type. So why you and not me?” Sherlock’s voice takes on a petulant whine near the end and John has a rather disturbing epiphany.

“Oh my God. You’re jealous, aren’t you?”

Sherlock crosses his arms. “No, I’m not.”

“Yes you are! You’re jealous because Mason picked me instead of you!” John’s nearing on incredulous, but really, why should he be surprised? But at least Sherlock wasn’t lying to him about the nature of Mason’s victims, at any rate.

Sherlock glowers at John from under his fringe, his knees drawn up and arms wrapped around them.  “Shut up. I’m just unsure of his motivation, is all. It doesn’t fit the pattern.”

“Aw, my poor darling, the bad, nasty man didn’t choose him to go to the loony ball, and now he’s pouting.” Dear God. His husband, till death do them part. John sits up, grabs Sherlock’s arm and pulls until Sherlock relents and finally falls over on top of John on the bed.

“’M not jealous,” he mumbles into John’s neck.

John pulls him in close, kisses his head. “You certainly are, you maddening creature. And I know you’ll always want to be in the middle of things, but ‘attracting the interest of a serial killer’ is not one of those things you really want on your CV. Now, come up here and let me kiss you. ”

Sherlock wrinkles his nose. “You smell like stale beer.”

“And you smell heavenly. Are you going to deny an injured man comfort like that? Besides, I keep thinking of Mason. I’d much rather think of you.” John slips his fingers under the cuff of Sherlock’s shirt and strokes his wrist softly before lifting it to his mouth.

Sherlock closes his eyes. “Just for a moment. I do need to sort this. Mmmm. Yes. God your _mouth_.”

“Mmhmm,” is John’s response as he lifts his head from Sherlock’s wrist so he can focus on unbuttoning his shirt.  “You’re still the prettiest,” he says as he pushes Sherlock’s shirt off of his shoulders, and as he kisses Sherlock’s chest the mood turns a little more serious, more heated. “The most lovely,” he whispers between kisses, his lips brushing Sherlock’s skin. “The sexiest, the most brilliant. God, Sherlock, let me have you. I need you.”

Sherlock looks as drunk on lust as John feels, and they fumble their clothes off in the half-dark bedroom.  It’s only the work of a moment to find the lube, their motions practiced and sure, and they slide together with a satisfied sigh. John still is amazed at the sight of Sherlock, so graceful and tall and sexy when he rides him like this, their bodies knowing how best to fit together, to move, to _fuck._

“I’d have killed him first,” Sherlock gasps, rocking himself down until John’s cock is buried as deep as he can be. “If he’d really hurt you. He’d be dead.”

“I’m fine, Oh God, I’m more than fine now. Come on, Bombshell, let it go for me.” John works his slick hand over Sherlock’s cock, desperate to hold off his own orgasm until he can give Sherlock his. The feel of them together is washing away the lingering horror of Mason’s kisses, and  as John watches Sherlock throw his head back, feels the warm trickle of semen across his belly, he feels his own orgasm take him hard, a last sharp thrust leaving him shaking and spent. Sherlock collapses against him, panting.

“Feeling better?” Sherlock murmurs after a few moments.

“Yeah. Nothing but you, ever again. No more revolting serial killers. I’d say if you want them that badly you can have them, but no. They can’t even have you to look at.” John stretches out an arm to grab a towel from the bedside drawer and he hands it to Sherlock, who sits up and takes it absently, a strange look on his face.  “What’s with you?”

Sherlock’s eyes light up. “That’s it! Oh, its genius. He’s binary, don’t you see? Two different types of victims, two sides of his personality! Perfect!” Sherlock tosses the towel in the general direction of the hamper and climbs off the bed. “See, one side looks for posh, well-heeled polished types, the men of fashion, of wealth, of beauty. The other side looks for—“

“Watch it,” John growls, but he’s laughing.

Sherlock climbs back over him, kisses him. “Perfect specimens of the quintessential English male. Strong, brave, polite, loyal. Handsome.” Sherlock nuzzles his neck and John giggles.

“Yes, yes, all right, you suck up. Off you go.” John swats Sherlock’s arse on the way to the loo. “Remember, no trying to attract any more serial killers. And pick up some milk on your way home!” he shouts over the running water.

Sherlock’s raised double-finger salute from over the top of the shower curtain is his only reply. John can’t help but laugh, then jump into the shower and press Sherlock against the wall under the warm spray.

Serial killers will just have to wait.

 

 


End file.
